Matt's Package

Last night Matt and I took advantage of the late store hours in Maastricht, strolling hand in hand in our Barbour coats, breathing in the crisp fall air, and taking in the beauty of the changing leaves, charming squares, and delighting in the picture-perfectness of it all. As we entered our first store (think Joyce Leslie), I felt compelled to comb each rack and seek comfort in the large size of the store---something very uncommon in Paris. As I was coming around a rack of gold-flecked sweaters, I heard something that made me freeze. “Hello, can I help you?” It literally made me speechless, and in a moment where I could have actually respond appropriately.

Did I need to try on the sequined pants in obnoxious colors that looked more appropriate for a lady of the night? No. But I wanted to take in the moment—elongate the feeling of happiness I felt being around native English speakers.

From there my love for the town snowballed. A grocery store with peanut butter that cost exactly 92 centimes, parceled with cheese-flavored rice cakes, multi-grain crackers and American marshmallows, which alone made the journey worth it. But add the sweet-smelling waffle stands, chocolate stores galore, and it mirrors an Anglo heaven. Want your monogram in chocolate (milk, dark and white?), Maastricht is your place. MTV and Comedy Central at the hotel, a McDonald’s with stained-glass windows and a waffle/caramel flavored McFlurry (which followed my spinach salad and cherry bier). No moments of befuddlement, language-barriers, feelings of frustration over steep prices, and lack of customer service. It indeed felt like home.

It is hard to not step back from the land of the beauties on bikes and reflect for a moment on our decision to get married and move to Paris just all in the span of a year. As October 11^th marked wedding one, we haven’t been able to say yet for certain that we made the right choice packing up and shipping out. We seem to get stuck dwelling on the fact that we are not ex-pats in a city where it is a necessity to have those benefits to counterbalance the hardships that come with a new culture, new language, and new life. Not to get personal, but Matt’s package is way too small. As my doctor’s fees mount (still no carte vitale), my yearning for a stable 9-5 increases (no work visa—apparently ever), and Matt’s company continues to receive negative press, it takes a concerted effort to remind ourselves of the adventure we are on and sharing together. A gorgeous town with English-speakers, tolerable prices, a Burger King (amongst a myriad of American foods), Halloween decorations, and watching the Hills on MTV does not help. Side note: the book that was being highlighted at the swanky Bijenkorf was Lauren Conrad’s Sweet Little Lies.

So what is the solution? Do we throw in the Manuel Canovas towel and head back to weekends at Target and Starbuck’s? After spending 24 hours here, it is hard not to at least consider. But as we strolled through the stores last night, talking about Matt’s need for a banana hammock as we are going to start swimming (direct orders from my Kinetherapist), and going back over the list of upcoming weekend plans with our friends and dates with Easy Jet (Madrid, Prague, and Budapest all before Christmas!), we are living a life that we simply couldn’t mimic being back in the gold ole Anglo-USA. So even if Matt’s package has not afforded us the fantastic flat and smooth transition into life with the Frenchies, at the very least it will be look very cute at the local piscine.

Brugges

Perfection. Our flat was simply divine: spacious, clean, and appeared to a product of a very well-trained eye. Cynthia, our hostess, was a statuesque Canadian who had come to Belgium to play professional basketball, and never left (and I can see why, besides the most-likely very attractive and very tall husband).

We were situated on the one of the main shopping roads, and when we were not sitting on the distressed sea-foam green leather couch watching E! or Football American, we were strolling up and down the cobblestone, stopping to take in the canals, the changing leaves, the gorgeous main square, and the multitude of bikes. Another slice of Anglo-heaven. Would be come back? I don’t even want to leave!

Our palace for the weekend!

Gent, Belgium

Shades of Gray

There’s no mistaking that fall has arrived in Paris. Leaves are gathering in the gutters. Each morning we wake up to a little less daylight, and each night we emerge from the Metro to a little more darkness. But the clearest sign is that the natives have switched to their fall wardrobes. The temperature might only be in the 60s, but it is September -- summer is fini -- and so they wrap themselves in scarves and bundle up in sweaters, coats and the color black. As much as anything, l’automne is a state of mind.

It would be nice if health insurance were also a state of mind, because then we might be able to more easily obtain it. As it is, we are still waiting to be registered in the French social-security system and enrolled in my company’s mutuelle. Once this is done, we will be able to submit for reimbursement the receipts from the visits to doctors that we’ve already made. In the meantime, as Ashley’s back continues to bother her, said receipts pile up -- not quite like leaves in the gutter, but rather in a carefully kept folder, until they can be sent to their final bureaucratic resting place, wherever (and, more vexingly, whenever) that may be. It is frustrating -- to say the least -- not to be officially part of the healthcare system that is said to be one of the great advantages of living in France. Another great advantage is all the vacation time you get, but on that count, fear not, dear reader: with less than three months to go in 2010, I have used or earmarked 43.5 of my 44 days (which technically consist of 25 days of congés annuels (regular vacation) and 19 jours de temps libre (the extra vacation days that non-hourly French workers were given when the government officially shortened the work week from 40 to 35 hours)). Unlike Ashley’s back, that feels very, very good.

Given our lingering administrative issues, there’s French phrase I learned recently that has stuck in my mind: c’est nul. My French teacher told me you can use this to describe, say, a movie that you didn’t like at all. I don’t think there’s a clear counterpart to this phrase in English. We might say something’s “no good” or it’s “crap.” But this is like saying something’s “null” or "zero" -- so unworthy of your time that it does not or need not exist. Alas, this is what we are in the eyes of the French healthcare system (technically, I suppose, we are not). Until, that is, some administrator in some office somewhere decides that we do -- i.e., that we are, and our null-ness is magically transformed into social-security numbers. And that will be a great jour indeed, no matter what the weather.

-- MBB